


On the Road Again

by orphan_account



Category: 6 Underground (2019) Actor RPF, Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Press and Tabloids, Strained Relationships, work relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22493071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: As the coordinator of Ben's press tour, you're responsible for getting him to and from every interview and event he's scheduled to attend. When the tour begins to take a toll on him, you have to get over whatever frustrations exist between you, and help Ben maintain his sanity.
Relationships: Ben Hardy & Gwilym Lee, Ben Hardy & Joe Mazzello, Ben Hardy/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	On the Road Again

**Author's Note:**

> New Ben Hardy fic - this boy is adorable, so I hope you like the way I've characterized him in this short series!

When you stepped into the hotel lobby, Ben was debating quietly with the night concierge at the front desk. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but judging by the way Ben’s jaw was clenched, his facial muscles nearly tight enough to snap, you guessed that he was displeased with the rooming situation. Maybe he’d requested a balcony, and they only had an inside room available? After an apology from the concierge, Ben stepped away from the desk and approached you.

“So, they fucked up—” he began, but you immediately started shaking your head. It was too late at night for this; you had been on a flight for 9 hours, and even disregarding the time change from London to Los Angeles, it was well past the hour you should both have been asleep. You were exhausted, and the last thing you needed right now was to hear Ben complain about another hotel situation. 

“It’s fine, Ben,” you interjected, holding a hand up to stop him. His bad attitude had gotten to you today, and you weren’t interested in his complaint. “We’re here for two nights; we’ll survive, whatever the issue is.” He opened his mouth to protest, to explain the situation, but deciding that it wasn’t worth the fight, he decided to let it go. 

“Fine. Here’s your room key,” Ben said stiffly, passing the plastic key card to you. As your fingers brushed against his, he snatched his hand back and stomped past you towards the lift. _Still behaving like a child, I see,_ you thought angrily. 

“Thanks,” you monotoned, not caring whether or not Ben actually heard you. With a heavy sigh, you grabbed the extended handle of your suitcase and followed after your reluctant travel partner. The lift must have been moving excruciatingly slowly, because Ben was still standing in front of the metal doors when you made it down the corridor, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited. 

“There are only four fucking floors, how can it take _this long_?” he muttered below his breath. You didn’t respond, choosing instead to watch the light shift between the numbered squares above the lift doors, indicating what floor it was stopped on. Finally, the doors opened, and a frail-looking old man attempted to push a trolley stacked high with baggage out into the hotel lobby – at two in the morning, no less. Ben jumped into action, stepping forward to help the fellow manoeuvre the trolley over the abnormally large gap between the lift’s floor and that of the neatly tiled lobby. After a moment’s struggle, Ben realized that one of the wheels had a locked brake. He kicked the brake open with the toe of his boot and pulled the trolley forward with ease, allowing the lift’s sole occupant to step out without further issue. 

“Thank you kindly,” the elderly man acknowledged, reaching out to shake Ben’s hand. One of the hotel’s staff members hurried over to assist when they noticed the precariously piled trolley, which allowed you and Ben to board the lift without further delay. After a moment’s silence, you glanced up at your companion with a smile – the first real smile you’d given him in days. 

“That was really nice of you, Ben,” you expressed sincerely. The blonde scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, struggling to decide whether you were teasing him or not. After starting things off on the wrong foot earlier in the week, Ben was wary of anything you had to say to him. 

“Anyone would have done it,” he said finally, shrugging off your compliment. A loud *ding!* sounded as the lift stopped on the third floor; Ben gestured towards the opening doors, signalling for you to step out first. _Always the gentleman._ The wheels of your suitcase clicked against the tiled floors of the hotel corridor, as did Ben’s as he followed a safe distance behind you. Glancing down at the card clutched between your index and middle fingers, you noted the room number and stopped outside number 336. 

“This is me,” you announced, moving towards the door so that Ben could walk past you. He didn’t move; instead, he regarded you with weary eyes, waiting for you to realize the conundrum he’d attempted to inform you of earlier. 

“You’re shitting me,” you said finally, grabbing the small paper holder his key card was enveloped within. 336 – exactly the same as yours. 

“If you’d have let me talk for five seconds, you would have known this already,” he murmured. “They overbooked the hotel, and we’re apparently the last to check in for the night. It’s too late to look for something else, and you know it – we’re beyond exhausted. So yes, we’ll have to make do for the night.” This was the first reasonable statement Ben had made all day, in your mind. 

“There had better be two beds,” you mumbled under your breath, swiping the key card through the door’s scanner. The door was heavy and required a strong push to open, so Ben reached out an arm and assisted you. Dragging your suitcase behind you, you stepped into the room and immediately began searching for the light switch, which wasn’t where you assumed it would be. Ben found it first, and with a click, the room was illuminated. 

To your relief, there were two queen beds, separated by a two-foot stretch of carpet, and a bedside table with a funky lamp atop it. A flat-screen TV was centred on the wall at the end of the beds, which might have come in handy if you’d booked the place for a longer stay. The washroom to the right of the door consisted of a shower and toilet, with a sink in a separate alcove outside the toilet area. This was convenient, and would allow for at least _some_ semblance of privacy. 

“At least it’s a nice room,” you said optimistically, watching Ben as he rolled his bag towards the closest bed to the door. He, like your father, felt it safest for the man to sleep closest to the door in case of an intruder; this went unsaid, but you appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. 

“Shit, I forgot to request a wake-up call,” Ben announced, glancing back at you. “What time do we need to be up for the interview?” As the coordinator of his current press tour, Ben relied on you to keep track of when and where he needed to be at all times. 

“You don’t need to be up until 9,” you told Ben, leaving out the part where you would be up hours earlier to coordinate rides and food for him. “Show starts taping at noon, so we’ve got some time in the morning. But don’t worry – I’m your wakeup call, and I won’t forget.” Ben collapsed back onto his bed, relieved by your response. He kicked his boots off and pretended to fall asleep right then and there, without stepping out of his jeans or brushing his teeth. 

“You can get ready for bed first,” he offered, keeping his eyes closed as he laid spread out over his bed. “I just…need a moment.” 

Although Ben had frustrated you to no end over the past week, you felt bad for the man; he was a notorious introvert, yet he was forced to travel and give interview after interview, answering the same questions about his most recent project. If pressed, he would admit that the whole press tour thing wasn’t his favourite (an extreme understatement) but that he _loved_ acting, and was willing to take on some discomfort for a few weeks in order to promote his films. As the person who accompanied Ben for the entirety of his press tour, you had the unique ability to see the toll it took on him over time. Only a week in, he was already irritable in his interactions with you, though he managed to appear friendly and approachable to his interviewers. 

“Are you hungry?” you asked, hauling your suitcase up onto your bed so that you could grab your toiletry bag and pyjamas. “I can call the front desk and see if room service is still available at this time of night.” 

“No, I’m…I just need a fucking cigarette,” Ben groaned, pressing his hands against his face as if to smother himself. “I made the stupid decision to try quitting right before this bloody tour, and now I’m miserable.” His admission had you smiling; you knew how much Ben had relied on smoking as a coping mechanism over the past few years, and you appreciated that he had made a serious attempt to quit for the betterment of his health. 

“I have Nicorette in my bag if you want that,” you offered, “or I have a full pack of Marlboros for you if you decide the gum’s not going to cut it.” Ben was quiet for a moment, but once he had absorbed your words, he sat upright, dangling his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“You brought gum and cigarettes for me, in case I needed them?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I…thank you, Y/N. That’s really thoughtful of you.” You waved his appreciation off; it was just part of the job, you told yourself. 

“I was a right bitch when I quit last year,” you admitted, “and I used both patches _and_ gum to help me. You quit cold turkey at one of the most stressful times of the year for you, which is brave as hell. It’s not that I didn’t think you could do it…I just didn’t want you to overdo it and be miserable.” Ben’s eyebrows drew together quizzically at your explanation. 

“How did you know I was quitting?” he asked, confused. “I didn’t think I mentioned it to anyone.” He had you caught, you realized; you would have to reveal the source of your information, even though it would probably piss him off even more. 

“Let’s talk about that in the morning,” you deflected, walking towards the bathroom with the clothes and toiletries you had pulled from your bag. “We both need to sleep, or we’re going to be even crankier than we are already. If you want the cigs, they’re in a plastic bag in the front pocket of my suitcase.” 

Once you had brushed your teeth, removed your makeup, and changed into your pyjamas – flannel shorts and a t-shirt that had once belonged to a boyfriend (though which, you couldn’t recall) – you returned to your bed and put away your travel outfit and toiletry bag. Ben watched you carefully as you did so, noticing for the first time a floral tattoo that stretched up the outside of your right leg, from just below your knee to midway up your thigh. He’d never had an opportunity to see it before now. 

“I didn’t know you had tattoos,” he said, pointing at your leg. “When’d you get that done?” Glancing down at yourself, you became acutely aware that your shorts were _much_ shorter than you remembered them being. Flushing pink, you tugged at the hem of the shorts in an attempt to cover yourself a bit more. 

“Oh, that old thing,” you shrugged self-consciously, “I’ve had it for ages – got it when I was in uni to cover up the scar from my LCL surgery.” Ben nodded, considering your words. 

“Huh. That’s brilliant, actually,” he said, humming thoughtfully. “I’d have never thought to cover a scar with a tattoo, but it looks great.” 

“Thanks,” you said, frowning slightly. “I was pretty self-conscious about it in secondary school; I didn’t know anyone else who’d had a sports injury like mine, and the scarring was pretty bad right in the year or two after my surgery.” 

“I can relate,” Ben told you, patting his right knee gently. “I tore my ACL playing football in uni, and I had to have surgery, too. Sort of wrecked any dream I’d had about playing seriously, which was disappointing, to say the least. It made me really angry, actually. I had to quit the team and watch as some of my friends went pro.” 

This was the first time you could recall ever having such a serious conversation with Ben, you realized. Your commonalities had always been minimal, as far as you knew, and tended to be related to your tastes in music, or in books you’d both read at some point. Your sports injury had been _emotional_ , and had resulted in a huge decrease in your self-confidence as an athlete; to know that Ben had gone through a similar experience was…comforting, in a way. 

“I’m sorry that happened; I didn’t know that about you,” you apologized, clambering up onto your bed now that your suitcase was on the floor. “Watching footie is great, I’m sure, but it must be really hard not to be able to play the same way you used to.” 

“Thanks, Y/N,” Ben said, smiling appreciatively. “Sorry to keep you up with my sad life story, though. It’s late, and we should both get to bed.” 

“Right,” you nodded, crawling beneath the surprisingly comfortable hotel sheets. “Your turn in the bathroom. Save your shower for the morning, you’ll have time. You need your sleep; today was exhausting for you, I’m sure.” Ben wasn’t sure how to take that last comment – were you implying that he didn’t travel well, or were you just sensitive to the shift in his mood? He shrugged it off, instead focusing his attention on brushing his teeth, and washing and moisturizing his face. 

He’d never realized before becoming an actor how much skin care mattered, but now, Ben wouldn’t dare forget to wash his face. He was prone to acne if he neglected it, and with all the makeup he had to wear on set, he recognized the importance of having clean skin. His minty toothpaste made his mouth feel fresh for the first time in what felt like days, and the splash of cool water on his face as he washed it did wonders for his mood. Acting had – for better or for worse – changed the way he viewed and interacted with his body and mind, but he felt that his increased ability to recognize the importance of self-care was a positive thing his job had brought about. 

When he returned to his bed, your breathing had already slowed significantly, an indicator that you were probably fast asleep. Ben saw that you hadn’t pulled the blankets up much, so he gently adjusted the duvet to cover your bare arms, which he noticed were pebbled with goosebumps from the cool air in the room. 

“Thanks, Benny,” you whispered, just on the edge of sleep and wakefulness; Ben rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth turned upwards at the nickname you’d used. You would never have said it to his face, he was sure, but knowing that such affection existed on the peripheries of your consciousness was sweet, he thought. 

As Ben crawled into bed and adjusted his own pillow and blankets, he observed the soft expression of sleep on your face. For the first time, he felt a tug at his heart, one that hinted at more than just a professional regard and appreciation of you as a person. The curve of your nose, the way your eyelashes delicately brushed against your cheeks as they fluttered with each movement of your eyes behind their lids; you were lovely in a way Ben hadn’t noticed before. 

The blonde was just moments from drifting off, but as he turned off the light, he decided that he would regret it forever if he didn’t say the words on the tip of his tongue aloud: 

“Goodnight, gorgeous,” he whispered, closing his eyes.


End file.
